


Falconry 101

by BeneficialAddiction



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Avengers Family, Avengers Tower, BAMF Clint Barton, Baby Phil, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Feels, Clint Has Issues, Clint Needs a Hug, Deaf Clint Barton, Domestic Avengers, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt/Comfort, Omega Clint, Protective Avengers, Younger Avengers, boss Phil, but not Young Avengers, eventual Phlint, he's working on it tho, making the Avengers, not a BAMF just yet, team leader Phil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-06-02 22:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6585070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson's been an Agent of SHIELD for years. Collected out of the Rangers as a young man, he was fast-tracked to the top because of his remarkable cunning, mind for strategy, and ability to lead in times of war. Now he's been charged with bringing together a team of super-heroes, but if he is to convince the young omega archer Clint Barton to join, he'll have to learn a thing or two about taming a wild hawk first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Approaching the Aerie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Aerie: A raptor's nesting place, usually high up, such as on a cliff.**

Phil had never liked circuses. He remembered being taken by his parents as a child every few years or so, remembered the sweat and the stickiness of summer, the stink of dirt and dust and animal droppings mixed with popcorn and the overbearing sweetness of spun sugar. He remembered being spooked by the garish masks of clowns and unimpressed by the ponies and the tigers so old they fell through their hoops more than leapt through them. It had been over a decade since he’d last been, but he expected little to have changed. 

The Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders didn’t disappoint. 

Or did, as were the case. 

“Oh for god’s sake, lighten up Coulson,” Hunter grinned, jostling Phil with his shoulder as he stuffed a massive wad of fluffy, pink cotton candy into his mouth. “As far as recruitment missions go this isn’t nearly the worst it could be.” 

“How would you know?” May asked, leaning back behind him to smack Hunter on the back of the head. “You don’t do recruitment.” 

How had he ended up putting himself between these two again? They bickered like children - he should have known better than to bring them both along. 

“…Just here to get a look at the boy-wonder,” the ex-mercenary explained. “Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy myself. If Coulson would just pull the stick out of his…” 

“All right, enough,” he said firmly, and both agents on either side of him shut right up, shoulders straightening and countenances going serious and alert as they reacted to the smooth, too-calm timber of his voice. 

After being plucked from the Rangers and fast-tracked to the top of SHIELD’s chain of command, he’d spent a few years carefully cultivating that tone, learning how to inspire the confidence of others. As a Beta he radiated steadiness and reliability but had found early on that he could also tap into instincts more suited to an Alpha. With time and practice this had made him an invaluable asset despite the controversy that came with bucking one’s orientation, with aspiring to things supposedly outside one’s biological capabilities. SHIELD, however, was an organization that prided itself on forward thinking, and didn’t care about the orientation of its agents as long as it didn’t interfere with their performance. Encouraged it even, in cases like Phil’s where it could be turned into an asset, made him _better_. 

Far from holding him back, Phil’s more dominant tendencies had practically slingshot him through training, where his remarkable cunning, mind for strategy, and uncommon ability to lead in times of war made him one of the youngest senior agents that SHIELD had ever seen. For the last few years he’d been working on and off alongside May and Hunter and a few other up and coming agents, but there were murmurs of something bigger in the works, and Nick Fury, Director of SHIELD, seemed to have taken an unusually keen interest in Phil recently. He’d been pulled twice now for special courses in Handling and briefed on the files of several of SHIELD’s civilian marks, including the Russian assassin Natasha Romanov, billionaire genius Tony Stark, emotionally-unstable doctor Bruce Banner, Norse god come-to-earth Thor, and actual super-soldier Steve Rogers. 

A team, slowly being assembled around him, and hadn’t that been one for the books? 

Steve Rogers, _the_ Captain America. 

Coulson could only hope that one day it wouldn’t be so horribly inappropriate to ask the man to sign some of his vintage collector’s cards. 

Despite reservations on behalf of all of the members of what Fury was currently calling Project Avenger, together they had run three decent simulations with Phil heading the comms, but something had been missing and he wasn’t the only one who’d felt it. The Director seemed certain that it was sniper their team needed to round it out, but when Phil had suggested Lance Hunter for the position the idea had been quickly shot down, no sufficient reason given, and now here he was, skirting a tent full of sad little ponies giving children slow, plodding rides in a circle worn to dirt as he headed toward a dilapidated, patchwork big top. 

“Come on,” he muttered, trying not to inhale as they passed the single elephant chained to a stake in the ground. “The show starts in five minutes. Let’s see how good he really is.” 

Stepping into the shade of the tent did little to relieve the hum of nerves along the back of Phil’s neck. The hush inside the fabric walls as crowded bleachers full of spectators waited with baited breath was electrifying, but couldn’t dampen the dull current of unease running through him. There was a discomfort beneath his skin that he wasn’t used to feeling, something here making him… he didn’t know. All his senses were on high alert, seeking, searching for something. 

He’d been sent out here after a missing piece, and now, knowing it was so close… 

“Ladies and gentleman, children of all ages, welcome, to the most incredible, the most magnificent, Carson’s Carnival of Traveling Wonders!” 

The swell of the crowd was colossal as the Ringmaster stepped into the center of the big top and began the show, his red and gold coat and dark top hat cleaner and brighter and newer than anything that Phil had seen so far. He was surprised, impressed even by the cheers and applause, and he wondered if perhaps the circus really was better than it appeared, if the talents of its many acts made up for its obvious lack of funds. The cacophony around him suggested there was more than one returned fan in the crowd, and as he, Hunter, and May settled in for the show, he kept his ears tuned to the onlookers instead of the long-winded showman, listening for the name of the young man he’d come to see. 

The Amazing Hawkeye. 

SHIELD had very little information on Clinton Francis Barton. They knew he’d been born in Iowa but not when, and their best guess put him somewhere around the age of sixteen. They knew almost nothing about his childhood but knew that he’d been raised poor, and that after the death of his parents at a young age he and his brother Barney had been placed in homes and orphanages for years before they both ran off to join the circus. Barney had disappeared soon after but Clint quickly began making himself known under his stage name for his skills with a bow, and while Phil wasn’t sure how he’d come to Fury’s attention, he found himself eager to vet the boy’s talents for himself. It would his job on this recruitment mission to learn as much as he could about Clinton - about his abilities, his physical and mental aptitude, his potential for assimilating into the team that had been built without him, and possibly most importantly, his orientation. 

It shouldn’t matter. To Phil it didn’t, and he was willing to put money on the fact that it didn’t to Fury either. Unfortunately he would also be willing to put money of the fact that in Clinton’s world it did, and that made it likely to affect the way he fit in with the others, his potential for following orders as well as taking initiative, and unfortunately, if the young man turned out to have an Alpha dominant, it would flatly affect his ability to physically leave the circus. 

For his part, Phil didn’t think it would be a problem. From all that he’d read and heard he felt it far more likely that Clinton was an Alpha himself than a beta. Having lost his parents so young and taken charge of his life the way he had, well... 

If anything screamed Alpha it was the cocky, brash, innovative style of the young archer emblazoned in purple across half the carnival’s advertising posters. 

“You know they aren’t bad,” May said beside him with a significant bit of surprise. 

Phil hummed noncommittally - he hadn’t been paying attention, though Hunter seconded the comment and so he supposed the acts he’d missed had to have at least been adequate. Snapping open the paper program he’d been fanning himself with, he skimmed down the line of acts, looking for The World’s Greatest Marksman. If the clowns dancing out of the ring before him were anything to judge by, he only had to get through the high wire act before work could really begin. 

“And now ladies and gentleman,” the Ringmaster called, twirling a cane and gesturing grandly, “If you would please direct your attention to the top of the tent, a full forty feet above the ring! Let’s have a round of applause for our tight-rope walkers, no harness, no nets, nothing but fearless ambition as they take to the highwire!” 

Wolf whistles rang out shrilly in Phil’s ears as he leaned back to get a good look, and when two tiny, white-clad figures appeared miles above his head he felt his stomach swoop. He had certainly never shrunk from heights before, had even jumped from a few planes in his Ranger days, but this was something else entirely. The two figures made it look the easiest thing, children swinging back and forth from a wire jungle gym, but true to their introduction, neither wore anything but silk and sequins. There were no harnesses, no parachutes or safety nets below, nothing to stop them from plummeting to a quick death or gruesome maiming below if either of their hands slipped. 

Back and forth, sideways and back again, swinging upside down by their knees or walking one carefully balanced foot at a time between the posts of the tent, they spun and cartwheeled through the air with a joyful sort of abandon that was palpable even from the bottom of the tent. Phil found his breath catching as they flipped and flew through the air, entranced by the occasional spark as their costumes caught the spotlight, his heart thumping in his chest with the rush of excitement and anxiety that was so contagious amongst the crowd. Around him the music began to swell as the act came to a climax, each of the acrobats retreating to their individual platforms to strap balancing poles across their backs before stepping out onto the wire again. Slowly they approached each other, meeting in the middle of the tightrope and coming together in a passionate embrace, but just as the music reached a crescendo, something went horribly wrong. 

In the space of one desperate, drawn-out heartbeat, one of the gymnasts slipped, left the other clutching at thin air as he toppled from the wire, went tumbling down and down and down as the crowd gasped in horror. 

True to their training in the event of disaster, all three agents were on their feet as soon as they saw the stumble, but there was quite literally nothing they could do but watch the inevitable, unable to tear their eyes away from the horrendous spectacle before them and try to do some damage control when it was over. 

No safety harness. 

No net. 

Ok, this looked bad… 

But then something happened halfway down, something remarkable that made Phil’s heart leap into his throat. 

Turning his body mid-air, the acrobat slipped his pole over his shoulders and suddenly it became a bow in his hands, an arrow fired to the top of the tent and lodged firmly in the wooden support beams, hung a gossamer thin wire that slowed his descent until he dropped smoothly and delicately to the ground to an explosive burst of amazed cries and applause. 

He was absolutely breathtaking. 

“Ladies and gentleman,” the Ringmaster shouted over the din, “It is my immense pleasure to bring to you - The World’s Greatest Marksman, The Amazing Hawkeye!” 

“Holy shit,” Hunter breathed beside him, leaning in close to be heard over the discord as the young man stripped off his costume with a neat flick of his wrist, revealing a deep purple vest over black leggings with all the flair of a born showman. “You ever see anything like that before?” 

Phil could only shake his head, dumbly clap along with the rest as the boy in front of them bowed and threw up his arms, striding around the ring with a wide, pleased grin plastered across his face. He was wearing a pointed mask over his eyes, purple and sharp along the edges, glittering under the lights just like the rest of the costume that clung tightly to his thin frame. The distance was too far for him to be sure but Phil felt that perhaps he was too thin, something about him wobbly and disproportionate to his height as he strode strongly around the ring, and he felt that strange spark of discomfort once again tickling around low in the pit of his belly. 

He didn’t have much more time to contemplate it - while the young Hawkeye had been smiling and tumbling and coaxing cheers from the crowd, darkly-clothed men had slunk quietly in and out of the shadows unnoticed, setting up targets of every conceivable size and shape and position. Without a word the performance began, the long, thin recurve bow strung with a quiver of arrows picked up from the side of the arena, every one of them hitting their mark cleanly and precisely. It wasn’t bad shooting but it wasn’t really all that impressive, not after the shock that had come before, and beside him Hunter hummed with consideration, a look of begrudging respect on his face but not the same incredulity as there had been. 

Still, it shouldn’t have surprised them when trumpets sang and suddenly the show became everything they’d been expecting and much, much more. There were bursts of fire and rings of flame, targets that came swinging down from the darkened corners of the big top, men and women who cartwheeled back and forth in front of paper bullseyes with utter faith that the young man’s arrows would fly straight and true, drive safely home. As the act came to its finale an old grey horse was driven into the ring, saddleless and without a halter, but the young showman didn’t seem to notice as he swung easily up onto its dappled back, rising slowly to his feet even as the animal galloped in wider and wider circles. Firing arrows with incredible accuracy even from his wobbly mount, he somehow managed to turn the horse toward the center of the tent, where a large metal ring had been erected. Drawing the last arrow from his quiver, the archer notched and drew, aiming for the hoop, but just as he made to release the horse stumbled, the smallest trip that elicited a collective gasp from the crowd. Swaying, the boy turned the movement into a smooth slide down onto the horse’s back, a classic western seat even as he sent the arrow flying ahead of him, wobbly through the air. 

Passing through the metal ring with an audible clink, the hoop burst into flame just in time to see horse and rider leap through, landing on the other side to another roar of applause. Both arms raised above his head, bow clutched tightly in one hand as the horse circled tightly for the crowd, Hawkeye threw kisses left and right, waved to what had clearly become a tent full of devoted fans, but to Phil’s trained eye the splitting grin he wore this time looked strained, forced. 

“Damn,” May said beside him, clapping along with the rest of the standing ovation as the boy rode out of the tent and the Ringmaster gave his closing speech. “Just… damn.” 

“Damn right,” Hunter agreed enthusiastically before sticking his pinkies in his mouth to let out a shrill, piercing whistle. “That kid’s incredible!” 

“Better than you?” she asked with a mocking grin, but Hunter’s answer was immediate and honest. 

“Better than me.” 

“You don’t even shoot a bow,” Phil said as the three of them pushed to their feet, fought their way down the bleachers as the crowd jostled and pushed out of the stuffy tent. 

“For good reason,” he scoffed, sidestepping a gaggle of toddlers blocking the door, dragging Phil along with a hand clamped around his bicep. He got a lot of flack from the gunman for being too polite, too formal, so he wasn’t surprised, just tried to keep his feet under him and not face plant as he stumbled out into the glaring sunlight. 

“A bow’s a lot harder to control than a gun,” Hunter explained, all three agents scanning the area silently, looking for the staff trailers or tents by unspoken understanding. “There’s physical strength and form involved that you don’t need with a gun. It takes a lot more focus, a lot more practice to be as accurate as you would with a pistol, even a long gun. Gravity, wind resistance, angles - there’s a lot more to take into account, to compensate for. That kid was flawless.” 

Phil frowned, strangely disgruntled by the praise, the obvious admiration in Hunter’s tone. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe him, didn’t recognize the frankly amazing abilities the young circus performer possessed. World’s Greatest Marksman was beginning to sound like an accurate title. 

No, it was his job that had suddenly become uncomfortable for him. 

This kid was good, incredible even, and SHIELD wanted him. They had wanted him before, but now that Phil, Hunter, and May all knew exactly what he could do, or at least what he had the potential for doing, it was highly unlikely that the organization was going to take no for an answer. 

And maybe that wouldn’t be a problem. 

Maybe the kid would come along happily, eager to be more than what he was, or at least to play along and have a bit of an adventure before he found out exactly what signing on with SHIELD would mean. But there was the chance too that he wouldn’t have any kind of interest in what Phil was going to offer him at all, and therein would lie the problem. Who was he to take a young man away from his family, his life? Because that was what would happen - as forward-thinking as SHIELD was they could be ruthless, and didn’t give up an asset easily. They would do all they could to force or manipulate the young man into becoming a tool that they could control, and that was what bothered him the most. He’d seen it already in the way Fury had brought together the rest of the Avengers Project, the quiet Dr. Banner, the morally-upright Cap, wild and reckless Tony Stark. 

SHIELD would change them, quite possibly for the worse. 

“Let’s just go find him,” he sighed, turning toward the back of the sloping, muddy field the circus had claimed and the patches of tatty tents and trailers scattered around the back of the big top. 

There was a distinct feeling of trespass hovering around the back of his neck as they started down a bare little foot-worn trail, careful not to slip on the way. Even with no one out and out staring at them Phil could feel gazes lingering between his shoulder blades, taking his measure. Probably best that he’d dressed down in civvies today – he imagined anything that smacked of authority wouldn’t receive the warmest welcome here.


	2. Eyass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Eyass: A bird taken from a nest as a downy baby raptor.**

This was taking too long. 

He knew that Barton was here, close, almost within his reach, but he and Hunter and May had yet to find him, and the whispers around them were beginning to come faster and much more loudly. The carnival workers and performers didn't stop them, didn't hinder their progress through the camp, but their hostility was palpable, nothing done to disguise the glares and sneered curses. Working their way up the steady incline between the tents and the train cars, they slowly made their way to the back of the lot, a sense of building tension tightening their muscles and straightening their spines until they came to the last car, clinging to the very fringes of camp where the hill dropped off to the train trestle below. As they approached the sound of raised voices floated down to them, colored with anger and indignation, and without thought or agreement the three agents quickened their pace. 

"I didn't miss!" a voice yelped, and Phil looked up to find Clint Barton being dangled above his head, the muscular brute from the strong man act holding him aloft by the neck of his purple vest. 

They were standing on the top of the car, along with another man in a dark blue velvet suit, French, narrow faced with an oily, curled mustache gracing his upper lip. The sword swallower? Without warning the man's arm flashed out like the snap of a whip, clouted the boy roughly on either side of the head, causing him to bare his teeth in a silent snarl and kick his feet uselessly at the air. 

"I didn't miss," he insisted. He was speaking, not shouting like the Ringmaster had back in the Big Top, but his voice was just a little too loud and Phil wondered about that, wondered if it was fear of the man in front of him - his alpha? - that put the odd little waver in his words. "I never miss!" 

The man in blue snarled under his breath, spat foreign words that sounded more like the growl of a beast than a man as his eyes glinted fiercely, and the man holding Barton shook him like a dog before dropping him down onto his feet with a thump. The young man immediately put his hands behind his back, crossed his wrists and took a step in retreat but the sword eater followed, drew back to deliver another blow and suddenly Phil didn't care if he was Barton's Alpha or not. 

"Excuse me!" he barked sharply, his voice cracking and making all three men above them jump and turn to look down over the lip of the boxcar. 

The strongman cocked an eyebrow, looked unimpressed, and Phil didn't blame him - the man was positively gargantuan. 

"Who let the gillies back here?" he demanded, voice thick with an unidentifiable accent. "Go away, little man. You have no business here." 

"Actually I do," Phil countered smugly, refusing to be cowed but suddenly grateful that he had invited Hunter along. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew his SHIELD ID and flipped it open, raising it so that the afternoon sunlight caught on the gold of the badge inside. "My name is Agent Phil Coulson of the Strategic Homeland..." 

He didn't get a chance to finish, not that that was all that unusual. 

The Frenchman's face went white before he'd uttered even half the agency's name and he turned on the young Clint Barton with a look Phil recognized as sheer murder in his eyes. 

"You!" he snarled. "You dare, you little beast? You worm? I warned you!" 

Lunging forward, he caught the boy around the neck to throttle him and Phil heard May and Hunter shout on either side of him as they both drew their weapons, but then the man shrieked in French and was letting go with a shove, sending Barton toppling over the side of the car with a silent cry as he disappeared over the embankment and fell toward the tracks below. 

Phil wasn't sure exactly what happened next. 

Didn't say much for his infamous situational awareness. 

He thought he saw the sword swallower and the strong man leap down from the boxcar, break into a run back into the warren of the circus grounds with Hunter hot on their heels, pistol in hand, thought he heard May shout at him to come back, but there were far more pressing things to deal with in the moment. Slipping and sliding down the steep, muddy little cliffside, Phil dropped onto the tracks with his stomach in his throat, sure that he would find his intended recruit splattered across the railroad ties. It was a fifteen foot drop at the very least from the top of the car, but once he'd skidded all the way down to the bottom and looked round for the expected splash of bloody red, he was shocked to find the teen lying in a crumpled heap, shaking but conscious as he attempted to push himself up onto his knees. 

He didn't make it far. 

Collapsing as his trembling arms gave out beneath him, he sobbed a gasp of pain, bucked once like he was going to puke, then curled up tight on his side before rolling over onto his back. 

By the time Phil reached him the kid had passed out. 

"Shit," he hissed under his breath, kneeling down and pressing his ear to the teen's chest. 

Strong heart beat. 

Steady breathing. 

Ok. 

Ok that was good. 

No rasping, no gurgling, no wet, choking sounds to suggest a punctured lung. 

Sitting back on his heels he looked the kid over, noting the ribs that stood out too starkly against his fingers like the rungs of a ladder. Up close he looked nearly the same as he had in the ring, only more; too thin and too lanky, a little sallow – all malnutrition and hard living, but there was good muscle there too, strong teeth and clear skin. A small cut over his brow stained his blonde hair red and trickled a thin line of blood down toward his temple, and Phil found himself cradling the kid's face possessively between his hands, carding his fingers up through his hair, leaning in and breathing deep and... 

_Omega_. 

Stunned, Phil jerked back, leaving gravity to pull the young man's head back onto the crushed gravel of the train track if May wasn't suddenly there beside him, catching the poor kid and easing his head down onto her knees. 

"We need to go," she said, her tone low and firm and severe, in other words completely unaffected by the strange biological imperative that had sunk its claws into Phil. "Now. It's chaos up there, and Hunter's taken off..." 

"Leave him," he decided quickly, brain kicking back online and running through the dozen or so scenarios at his disposal. "Hunter's an idiot but he can take care of himself. Come on, help me get him up." 

Silently, each of them grabbed one of the unconscious archer's arms and slung it over their shoulder, lifted him between them and watched his head loll forward on his neck. If Phil hadn't seen the kid move with his own eyes he'd think it had snapped on the fall. 

"He needs a doctor," May hissed between clenched teeth as they started down the train track, south of the circus grounds where they'd left the car. 

"He'll get one," Phil vowed. "But we can't go until we have Hunter - we'll wait for him at the motel and as soon as he shows we'll get the kid to a hospital. He was awake after he landed – he'll live." 

Harsh perhaps, cold and unfeeling, but Phil had seen his share of injuries and they really couldn't leave Hunter stranded here in podunk nowheresville, not matter how stupid he'd been for taking off into the crowd without backup. Skirting said crowd, which was abruptly restless and shifting, eager to leave the circus behind, Phil forcibly ignored the growing roar of disruption rising out of the lot, the frenetic dash of acrobats and roustabouts alike that signaled something wrong. 

Once to the car, he and May loaded Barton into the back seat, rigging the belts around his prone form to keep him there. Felt a bit like a kidnapping, but once again, no one stopped them, or even raised the alarm. Twenty silent minutes later they were back in the city proper and pulling into an empty parking space in front of an unassuming little motel, checking left and right before fetching the archer from the car and hauling him into the room Phil and Hunter were sharing. The boy had begun to stir and seemed to at least be trying to help a bit this time, his feet shuffling ineffectively at the pavement, and by the time they had laid him out on Phil's bed he'd started to twist and push away, a frown screwing his eyes up tight. 

"Come on Clint, wake up," he cajoled, slapping lightly at the archer's cheek. 

Probably not wise to rattle his brain anymore than it already had been, but if he had a concussion they should keep him awake. 

"Here," May said beside him, and Phil turned toward her, reached out a hand to accept the bottle of water she'd fetched from the kitchenette, but before he could take it there was a a flicker of movement, a sharp intake of breath, and then suddenly the kid wasn't on the bed anymore but pressed against the far wall, eyes darting around the room in a panic. 

"Easy," he said softly in his best soothing beta tone, taking two steps back and holding up his hands, pleased when May instinctively did the same. "You're safe. My name's Phil Coulson – do you remember what happened? At the circus?" 

Barton ignored him, didn't react to the questions at all, instead scrabbled at the wall as he looked around desperately for an escape, but pressing his hands backward cause him to jerk, yip in pain as his face went a sickly shade of green, and then he was lunging past them both into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. 

Cocking an eyebrow at the retching sounds coming from the other side, Phil sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

"This did not go well," he said, and behind him May scoffed, an uncharacteristic display of derisive unamusement. 

"He has a concussion," she determined, turning away. 

Left without a counter argument in the face of the sounds coming from the bath, Phil followed her silently into the little living room where she dropped the bottle onto a side table before perching delicately on the arm of a lumpy, paisley printed couch. The very least they could do now was give the young man a little privacy, a little dignity. 

A beat of silence passed. 

"Did we just kidnap a minor omega?" he asked flatly. "Without his Alpha's knowledge or consent?" 

"His _Alpha_ just threw him off a cliff," May sneered. 

Well. 

There was that. 

"Shit," he muttered, and May nodded in silent agreement. 

He shouldn't have pulled his badge. 

He'd known going into this, from what little research he'd managed to find, that circus culture was tight and quiet and closely kept, that outsiders, particularly authority figures, would not be welcomed or tolerated. He didn't know what had come over him in that moment – certainly May, or even Hunter had more of a reason than he had to react to the sight of a teenager being slapped around. It might go against the grain for him, prickle at his morals and sense of right and wrong, but there was nothing in his past that would make it a trigger for him. 

Still, he'd reacted like a probie, a sharp, hot flash of anger putting the Alpha rumble in his voice as he'd demanded silence, stillness, demanded the other man's attention so that it was no longer on the cringing archer he'd been abusing. 

Opening his mouth, he was only just saved doing something stupid like trying to defend his actions to someone like Melinda May by the short, staccato, two-beat knock that alerted them to Hunter's return. 

"Lost 'em," he announced as he came through the door. He was sweating, slightly out of breath, but he was grinning and Phil was reminded of how much the sniper enjoyed the hunt, the chase. "But damn is that place in an uproar. Dunno what we kicked off but you'd have thought someone pulled a bloody fire alarm." 

Grabbing the water bottle May had left on the table, he cracked off the top and gulped half of it down in one go. 

"You got the kid?" he asked, scrubbing the back of his wrist over his mouth. "Took a good tumble - he ok?" 

"Puking in the bathroom," May replied, only half paying attention as she had taken her handgun from beneath her jacket on Hunter's entrance and was now occupying herself by checking the sights, the safety. 

"I don't hear anything," Hunter frowned and all three of them froze, tilting their heads to listen. 

"Did you hear the door?" Phil asked, a chill flooding through him. 

May shook her head and then as if on a cue, certain they'd miss something, all three of them made a dash for the bathroom door. Phil got there first and wrenched it open, stunned and yet somehow unsurprised to find the little, utilitarian room completely empty. The lid on the toilet was down, the water in the sink was running, and above them one of the ceiling tiles was just the slightest bit askew. 

On either side of him May and Hunter looked up, following his gaze, and Hunter chuffed a laugh. 

"Oh yeah," he said, respect and admiration suffusing his tone. "This kid is good."

**AVAVA**

The ride between the circus and the hotel only took fifteen minutes this time with May behind the wheel of the SUV, and when they finally got there it was like having landed on a foreign planet. The place was deserted, barren earth littered with paper and bits of debris, straw and filthy sawdust and muddy, torn-up turf criss-crossed with scrapes and ruts.

He understood the absence of civilians, the circus-goers who had just that afternoon been enjoying the carnival. The show had ended with Clint's final act under the big-top and the audience had already been making their way back toward their cars and the duller reality of their common lives when all hell had broken loose, ready to return home after a long and trying day of dragging toddlers through the heat and humid stickiness and leave the responsibility of the mess left behind to the transient circus performers who, outside of the magic of their costumes and individual arts, were relegated back to the lowly status of ordinary bums and drifters. 

What he didn't understand, what his mind couldn't seem to calculate, was the absence of the circus itself. 

No tents, no animals, no props, nothing left of what had been a sprawling sideshow less than an hour before. Whatever he and May and Hunter had done had apparently triggered some sort of mass exodus, and the entire carnival had somehow broken down, packed up, and pulled out in that seemingly impossible space of time. 

A rather impressive feat if you stopped to think about it. 

Nothing had been left behind, nothing but scraps and old flyers flickering around in the breeze, nothing of _value_ , except, perhaps, Clint Barton. 

Phil felt his stomach sink as his eyes landed on the crumpled form of the young man, collapsed on his knees in a puddle of filthy water, hunched over and clutching something in his hands. 

Dear god, what had they done? 

Phil had been on a few disaster missions in his early days but this was something different all together. 

"Resourceful," Hunter murmured, looking for the good in the mess around them as a cool wind began to kick up, grey clouds creeping slowly across the blue of a previously clear sky. "Kid must've hitched a ride back." 

"Or stole one," May intoned, and sure enough, when he looked in the direction of her calm, assessing gaze he saw an ancient, scuffed-up motorcycle lying on its side in the dirt. 

Hadn't that bike been in the parking lot of their hotel? 

Phil suddenly seemed to feel every ounce of the weight that pressed the archer against the earth, the weight of the world that Phil had brought crashing down around him. 

"Clint?" he called carefully, taking a step or two toward the boy. He didn't react, not even a flinch, and that set something off in Phil's mind but he brushed it away, recognizing now the way his shoulders heaved with bitten back sobs. "Clint Barton." 

Nothing. 

Glancing back at May and Hunter, he jerked his chin, sent them both walking around to one side while he took the other. 

He wasn't ready when Clint Barton caught sight of him. 

He shouldn't have been anywhere at all within the young man's range of vision, but something, some flicker of movement or flash of color must have alerted him to their presence and in the space of a breath, less, he went from crouched over and sobbing into the mud to standing, a bow drawn in his hands and a sharp-tipped arrow pointed right at Phil's heart. 

"You!" he snarled, eyes bright with hatred, tear tracks cutting through the filth on his face. "You idiot, you ruined everything!" 

"Easy," Phil soothed, holding up his hands placatingly as his eyes stuck on the end of Clint's arrow. "I just want to talk. We didn't mean to make any trouble for you, we just wanted..." 

"No shut up!" the teenager snapped, his teeth bared like an animal. "I didn't... I didn't call, I didn't tell anyone! You, you can't just show up and... and _ruin_...." 

He was starting to panic now, nearly babbling and his hands were shaking but the bow still held steady, aimed at Phil's chest even as the boy started to go into a meltdown. 

"They're... they're gone, everyone, _everything_ , and it's _your_ fault! I just lost _everything_ , you... you don't even... Trick and Swordsman and... and they're all gone but I _didn't tell_! I _didn't miss_!" 

"I know you didn't miss Clint," he said soothingly, taking a cautious step forward as the young man teetered between blinding fury and overwhelming hysteria – understandable give that what he'd said was true. His entire life had just been pulled out from under him, and on top of that he was an omega who's just lost his Alpha, even if the man had been a shitty, abusive one. 

"I know you didn't miss," he repeated, careful not to look over Clint's shoulder and give away May and Hunter's position. "I was there – I saw. You didn't miss." 

Carefully, carefully, he let the Alpha rumble creep in on his voice, enough to calm, to sway. 

"I want you to put the bow down Clint. We're not here to hurt you, so put the bow down." 

"You took it all away," the kid sobbed, his voice raspy like he'd screamed himself hoarse, showing no sign that Phil's command had had any effect on him whatever. "It's gone, you... you _took it_. You _bastard_ , you took..." 

Taking advantage of the young man's distress, Hunter leapt forward, ready to grab the archer up in his arms, but he wasn't fast enough and Clint caught the movement in time, gave a shout as he turned on the sniper and raised his bow, prepared to lease his arrow. Any court would likely call it self-defense and let him off, an omega fighting back against a strange Alpha's attack, but Phil couldn't afford to lose an agent, a friend, and besides the paperwork would be horrendous. 

Didn't mean he relished the act of drawing his gun, taking aim, and firing a bullet into Clint Barton's leg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews please!! <3<3


	3. Hoods and Jesses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **Hood: A leather covering used to hide stimulus from a bird's sight to calm it and prevent it from reacting.**  
> 
> 
>  
> 
> **Jesses: Leather strips which go around a bird's ankles so a falconer can restrain it.**  
> 

He shot him. 

Fuck, he _shot_ him. 

Phil sighs, scrubs his hands over his face before lifting his head to look at the young man dozing fitfully in the hospital bed before him. 

In the last twenty-four hours he's earned this young omega an unwarranted beating and two fractured wrists, kidnapped him without his Alpha's consent, and shot him in the leg with all the cold calm of a heartless monster. 

Shot him with an Icer, an experimental, paralytic sedative, but still. 

The point stood. 

Glancing at his wristwatch, Phil blew out another long, slow breath, scowled like it was anyone's fault but his own that he was sitting here, had _been_ sitting here for over eight hours. There was a catch in his spine and migraine building at the base of his skull, and despite the fact that one of the SHIELD nurses had brought him lunch halfway through the day his stomach was cramped with hunger. 

Just eating, sleeping, showering... hadn't seemed all that important. 

Leaning back in the hard plastic chair that had been his home since they'd arrived, Phil takes a moment to trace the lines of Clint Barton's face, grim and hard even in sleep. 

He'd dropped like a sack of potatoes as soon as Phil's dart had hit his thigh, but not before he'd managed to turn on him with hatred and betrayal burning in his dark eyes. He'd gone down with a yelp, sprawled sideways, protecting the weapon in his hands before the specially designed sedative began to take effect. The insult he'd spit between clenched teeth had been the most colorful Phil had ever heard but he supposed he deserved it. It was a shitty move to pull. 

The omega's fingers had been locked around the grip of his bow even as his eyes fluttered shut and he lost consciousness. It was locked up in the Armory at the moment, and Phil didn't want to think about the anguish on the young man's face as he'd knelt in the mud of the empty field, clinging to the last thing left to him. That bow was quite literally the only thing he owned in the world anymore, and it had been Phil himself who'd peeled it from his cold, stiff fingers. 

They'd had to cuff him on the way back to HQ. He hadn't wanted to; he was worried about the young man's wrists after his topple off the train car, but he'd started waking up a lot sooner than Phil would've liked and he'd been more than hesitant to double-dose him with the sedative. In the end there was nothing for it – not when Clint immediately starting struggling as soon as his eyes had opened. He'd kicked Hunter in the jaw before they got him back under control again, ignored every word, every command Phil had spoken until he jabbed him with another needle and put him right back out. 

May had put her foot down on the accelerator after that and had gotten them back to New York in record time. Phil called ahead for a med team and briefed them as they were wheeling Clint in on a gurney; alerted them to Clint's true orientation status, the fact that he'd gotten hit with two Icers, and that there was some serious concern with regard to his wrists and forearms. Helen Cho, a young up-and-coming beta medic and a personal friend of Phil's had taken the information while checking Clint's vitals before nodding once and bustling the med team through into surgery, leaving him alone in the hallway staring after them. 

When May and Hunter had caught up moments later, he was still stuck. 

They save the debrief for later. 

All three of them know this recruitment was kind of a shitshow. 

May and Hunter leave him to wallow in that knowledge, heading for food and hot water and soft beds, but Phil had stayed, waited until Helen came back to the lobby to find him. She doesn't bother giving him the run-down; she has other patients to see and he's perfectly capable of reading the report she's printed off. It's limited of course, a nod to doctor-patient confidentiality, but still manages to give him a thorough update on the Omega's condition. They've done a full-body scan, as much of a physical as they could while Clint was under. 

Consensus is he'll live. 

His suspicions had been right. Drugged down in his hospital bed, Clint's arms are encased in black casts from palm to mid forearm, his wrist full of hairline fractures – easy enough to heal but painful as all hell. Phil eyes the drip taped to the blonde's inner elbow, painkillers and electrolytes and even more sedative because Clint had come up swinging off the operating table. The medics are none too pleased; he'd given one of them a black eye before they got him down. 

Phil's horrified and impressed by the omega's ability to use his hands, to power through the pain and wield a bow, to hit and scratch and fight despite the excruciating agony he must be in. 

Two fractured wrists are the least of his worries. 

The report Phil had been given lists chronic malnutrition, dehydration, low blood sugar, and his shins and ankles are covered in strange, deep cuts and gouges at varying stages of healing. 

To cap it all off the scans have shown that Clint Barton, omega, archer extraordinaire, is nearly as deaf as a post. 

Well it certainly explains a lot. 

Confusion was the word for it, what he'd felt when Clint had ignored his requests, his commands. He knows exactly how much power his Alpha voice can hold, and yet Clint hadn't even flinched, hadn't even quailed. 

Hadn't reacted at all. 

Makes a hell of a lot more sense now. 

Doesn't make him feel any better. 

Matter of fact, makes him feel about ten times worse. 

Jesus, he's kidnapped this kid, grabbed him and dragged him off and the whole time he hasn't even been able to hear what Phil's saying to him. No answer, no explanation, no reassurances... 

Phil's been kidnapped before, held captive – he _knows_ that fear. 

He can't even begin to imagine what it might've been like without one of his base senses. 

On the bed the omega shifts, his face a grimace as he growls a pained moan, twisting within his bonds. It's a testament to Clint's aggression and tenacity that the medics have him in five-point restraints in addition to the casts and the sedatives. There are thick, padded straps around each of his ankles, each of his biceps just above the elbow, and one across his chest just under his sternum. The rich caramel-colored leather stands out starkly against the white linens and the pale green gown they've dressed the omega in, and the sight of them makes Phil absolutely sick. 

This has all go wrong, so horribly wrong that he can only wish, again and again that he could do it all over, his mind caught in a loop of maybes and what-ifs. 

Pointless, senseless, but he can't stop himself. 

It was a mess from the start and he's never fucked up so badly. 

This omega, this _kid_ isn't under arrest, wasn't meant to be taken, only offered a job, a place if he wanted one. Now here he is, strapped to a bed, held in every way but one, the one that would violate him the most, exploit his very nature. 

The only reason an Alpha's command _isn't_ keeping him here is because he couldn't hear it when it left Phil's lips. 

He's never been so disgusted with himself. 

Perhaps it was unintentional, perhaps he was only doing the best he knew how to do in a time of chaos as everything went to shit around him, but he was trained for that. He knew how to deal with stress, how to transition seamlessly to Plan B when Plan A fell apart. 

May said he was being too hard on himself. 

That was _all_ she'd said. 

Three hours in to his vigil at Clint's side she'd come to check in, her hair still damp and the scent of coconut clinging to her in a warm, steamy cloud. She'd taken one look at his hang-dog expression and seen right through him immediately, scoffed and sat down in the extra chair beside him. She didn't offer him more than that one chastisement, but it wasn't necessary. They both knew what she meant, knew that Phil was still young and green and untested here at SHIELD, even if he'd been tried by fire in the Rangers, even if he was on the fast-track to Senior Agent. 

This, what they did here, it was different, far different. 

It was complicated, delicate, politics and coercion and working within the confines of the strangest, most unknown happenings of the world's underground. 

Nothing prepares you for SHIELD, and this mission, this recruitment has shaken him to his very core, shaken his confidence in himself and his abilities to remain calm under pressure and take control of a situation, turn it to his advantage. 

May reads all this on his face but doesn't offer any further comment, and no reassurance at all, just punches him hard on the shoulder before she leaves. 

Hours later the spot still hurts and he still can't breathe. 

Clint's been asleep too long. 

Helen said that it might happen, that in addition to the omega's poor body condition and the sedatives keeping him down, she suspects the young man is exhausted. Looking at him now Phil can see it in Clint's thin face, in how drawn he appears, the dark shadows beneath his eyes. Even with the chemicals dripping slowly from his IV into his veins he still sleeps fitfully, twisting and turning, groaning softly, his breathing too fast and shallow. It wasn't in his file – again, Helen's nod to privacy and patient confidentiality – but Phil's beginning to worry that underneath the hospital gown Clint's wearing there's more. 

Scars, bruises, old breaks... 

It's a hunch, no real evidence except what he'd seen of how Clint's mentor, possibly his Alpha had treated him, the physical abuse, the push off that train car and the tumble down the cliff. 

A dark suspicion, lingering in the back of his mind. 

Phil doesn't know what to say to him. 

There's an intense feeling of protectiveness swelling up inside his chest that he doesn't understand and doesn't particularly like, warring with irritation and anger and guilt and not all directed at himself. No, some of it is for Clint, and he can't seem to talk himself out of that, isn't even sure he wants to. This was a cluster-fuck through and through, avoidable if he'd only had sufficient information, had the opportunity to prepare. If he'd known Clint was an omega, not an Alpha like they'd expected, if he knew just how they would have been received by the circus, if they had know exactly what was going on between Clint and the Swordsman, what mire they were walking into... 

It's no excuse. 

Regardless, curiosity still burns away inside him, giving him the worst case of heartburn he's ever experienced. 

Or maybe that's the stress. 

Fury is waiting for his debrief. 

He's out of the office, has been for two days. He'd left this job to Phil, trusted him with it, and Phil's royally fucked it up. The Director will be back at any time, has no doubt been briefed already on the mess. He'll be down to speak to Phil as soon as he steps off the Quinjet, demanding answers, and honestly he's not sure he has any. 

His confidence has never taken such a hit, all over this one, embattled omega. 

An omega who's finally waking up. 

Phil straightens in his chair, watches as Clint slowly swims back up to consciousness from a safe distance away – safe both for him and for Clint. The blonde scowls, twists harder, seems to recognize the fact that he's tied down even before he opens his eyes. When he does, when he finally regains full awareness and blinks against the bright lights, all hell seems to break loose. 

Clint explodes up off the bed, as best he can anyway. He's shouting, snarling, and the machines around him go off in a cacophony of shrieks and frantic beeping. He's jerking against the restraints, fighting valiantly as Phil stands beside him, his hands up in universal surrender, unable or unwilling to hear his attempts to reassure him. Chaos ensues as Helen and two of her burliest nurses come rushing in, summoned by the caroling equipment shouting out the sins of Clint's heartbeat, blood pressure, and brain waves, and very suddenly the tiny room is far too full up with people, the air abruptly thick and warm and heavy, too close, and Clint's panic only ratchets up all that much. 

Phil's got a tablet in his hand, scribbling frantically in an attempt to get a message out that Clint will understand, stomach sinking because he knows there's no way the kid is calm enough to stop and read it, even to slow down. His heart's pounding and Clint's still fighting and the two nurses are shouting while Helen tries to shut everyone up, including her medical equipment, and then suddenly the curtain's ripped back and Nick Fury comes sweeping in in all his black leather Alpha glory, a scowl on his face and a thunderous tenor booming in his voice. 

"What the ever-loving-hell is going on in my med bay? Boy, settle the fuck down!" 

Clint goes dead still.


	4. Bait and Lure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **Bait: Food or objects used to entice an animal as prey.**  
> 
> 
>  
> 
> **Lure: To tempt or persuade, especially by offering some form of reward.**  
> 

"Jesus Christ on a three-wheeled bike Coulson, what the hell did you do?" Fury snarls, and over his shoulder Phil sees Barton flinch, reacting to the sonorous echo of his Alpha tenor more so than to his words. 

Phil gets it – he knows what it feels like to have that tone directed at him, the words too – he knows the very physical effect his friend and Director can have, but the young archer reacts to it far more violently than he should, even for an omega. He ducks his head, cowers, his eyes glued to his lap and his hands held in loose fists, wrists up like an offering. 

"Nick," he warns, flicking his eyes over Fury's shoulder, and the man scowls at him before turning hard on his heel, physically taken aback by the boy on the bed. 

"Shit," he mutters, quiet this time if no less irritable. "Get the fuck out, all of you." 

The room clears immediately, going empty and silent so fast Phil's almost dizzy with it, but it doesn't seem to relieve any of the fear that's swamping the boy so hard he can practically smell it. He's cowering, pressed back against the pillows as hard as he can be, his head turned sharply to the side baring his neck to Fury, and Phil hates himself for being strangely unable to look away. 

"Motherfucker what did you do?" the Director growls, turning on him with a glare that has been known to ruin lesser men. 

"Nothing!" he argues defensively, "I didn't..." 

_"Fuck you!"_

Phil startles, once again surprised by the sudden, vehement outburst of the young man beside him, but to his own credit, Fury startles too. Barton is staring at him, eyes burning, teeth bared, and he feels the look like a physical strike. 

"Fuck you, you didn't do anything," he hisses, and Fury crosses his arms over his chest, gives Phil a look. "You ruined everything, you took..." 

"Took _what?"_ Phil snaps, his heart suddenly thundering in his chest, guilt and shame sweeping through him. "Took you from a shit life of wasted talent? An abusive Alpha who smacked you around and pushed you off a fucking cliff?" 

"Son of a bitch, what do you know?" Barton snarls, and Phil only realizes that he'd been shouting, that he's leaning forward toward the omega on the balls of his feet, hands clenched into fists when Fury steps between them, puts one heavy hand on Phil's chest. 

"Cheese, what the hell?" he mutters sharply, his back to the omega. 

Phil blinks, takes a step back, shocked by his behavior, the way he's reacting to this man, this boy. 

He's not... 

"You understand me?" Fury asks gruffly, turning back around, and the kid sneers, glares at Phil over his shoulder. 

"Who me? The wasted, drop-out, carney hick?" 

"Little brat, you know that wasn't what I meant. Settle down." 

Barton's not the only one taken aback by the way Fury's voice has gone gentle and fond – Phil's never heard anything like that come off his friend's tongue. 

Then again, he's never seen Nick try to settle a terrified omega either. 

He tends to stay as far away from that sort of thing as he can. 

"You're a hell of a lot more than that kid," he rumbles, staring hard enough with his one eye that Barton blushes hard, ducks his head. "If you weren't you wouldn't be here." 

At the mention of his current predicament, Barton glares again, sends a cutting glance Phil's way and he actually feels his cheeks heat, feels that sick, roiling mess of emotion in his gut that puts his hackles up. The omega slumps back against the bed with a huff, turns his hands, examining the casts on his wrists and the restraints over his chest and elbows. 

"Looks like I would," he says, and oh the little shit, it's a straight up challenge, but Nick just barks a laugh. 

"Smart ass," he rumbles, stepping forward. "I like you." 

Barton flinches as the words leave his mouth, like Fury's reached out to strike him, goes painfully still as the man carefully unbuckles the straps tying him to the bed. Even as the Director steps back he doesn't move, doesn't react, even as Phil expects him to come flying up off the bed to take a swing at him. 

"Why am I here?" he whispers hoarsely, and his eyes shine but he keeps them open, watches Fury's mouth – lip reading, Phil now realizes. 

"You're in my med wing because you were pushed off a train car and broke your wrists," Fury says, slow and careful. "You're dehydrated, underweight, malnourished. You've got three broken ribs, a bruised kidney, and a twisted ankle, and my Doc wants to put thirty to forty stitches in your back." 

Barton blinks rapidly, doesn't speak, and Phil's stomach turns, rolls hard at the suggestion of all that hurt, all that abuse. That Barton – that Clint had managed his act at all given his condition, it... it's remarkable. 

" 'S nothin,'" Barton mutters, apparently unable to lift his eyes. " 'M fine. I did my act just fine – I didn't miss. You saw!" 

Phil's breath catches, surprised to be addressed so suddenly, that the tone of the omega's voice has gone so desperate, so pleading. 

"You _saw,"_ he insists, suddenly shivering. "I didn't miss." 

"No Clint," he murmurs gently, before he knows he's going to. "You didn't miss." 

"And if you can do _that_ like _this,"_ Fury says, breaking the strange silence that falls for all of half a second, "Then it makes me wonder what you could do at your best. Not a lot of people make me wonder kid. I want that." 

"Not interested." 

And Phil, well, Phil laughs. 

The kid turns so quickly, so sharply, all the fire flaring back to life that he actually manages to stun Nick Fury himself, and that's really something quite incredible. 

Unfortunately Barton doesn't seem to appreciate his mirth, and Fury actually turns on him with a look like he cannot believe what he's hearing. 

"Get out!" he snaps, and Phil's heart thuds, a feeling he doesn’t quite like sweeping over him. 

"But..." 

"Fucker, I said get out."

**AVAVA**

Clint doesn't relax until the guy is gone.

Stupid, because the other guy is still there, the Alpha, the huge, scary one who looks like he could and would take Clint apart with his bare hands. 

Doesn't make any sense that he feels more at ease with him than the other. 

_Agent Phil Coulson._

Anyone else might see him and not think anything, see him as the ordinary everyman he wears like a show uniform, but Clint's stage name isn't Hawkeye for nothing. He can see what's underneath; the broad shoulders and hidden muscle, the cunning, the heady Alpha power in a beta's body. 

It scares him, unsettles him, and not for the first time he wonders why he didn't take that shot in the mud of the abandoned circus grounds, why he'd hesitated and allowed himself to be tranqued, to be taken. 

His gaze is darting around the little hospital room searching for anything to use as a weapon when the Alpha in the black leather coat turns back to him and sighs. 

"When he was in the Rangers," he begins, his mouth forming the words carefully, the sound of his voice reaching Clint as a low, muffled rumble that he feels in his chest more than hears, "When he was in the Rangers he got himself shot saving an Iraqi kid from the line of fire." 

Clint tilts his head, doesn't speak. 

He doesn't know why the man is telling him this, doesn't know why it _matters_ to him. 

The Alpha huffs, shakes his head before sitting down in the straight-backed chair next to Clint's hospital bed. 

"Anyway. He's a good man. Stupid as hell sometimes. Gonna get him killed one day." 

Abruptly the man holds out his hand, offers it to shake. 

"Nick Fury, Director of SHIELD." 

"I don't shake." 

It's a dangerous thing, a risk to take with this large, powerful Alpha, defying him, but that last thing Clint wants to do, even less than receive a beating, is to voluntarily touch this man, to touch anyone. 

The Alpha glares, intense and searching, then barks a laugh and retracts his hand. 

"Smart kid," he acknowledges, and Clint shivers, instantly horrified by his reaction to that tiny bit of praise. "Hey, relax. Take a fucking breath. You're no good to me falling apart." 

Clint glares, shows his teeth, but the effect is probably ruined by the fact that he's very nearly hyperventilating. He hates having the Alpha so close, having his eye on him so intently as he struggles to get his breathing back under control but he manages it in the end. 

"Better." 

"Why am I _here?"_

"You're in the med bay of SHIELD's New York headquarters," he answers instead. "The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division." 

"Alphabet Soup," he mutters as the realization dawns, his heart seizing up in his chest. "I didn't..." 

"Don't give a fuck what you did or didn't do kid," the Alpha – Fury – growls. "All I care about is what you _can do,_ what you _could_ do." 

"Can't do anything," he lies, shrinking down in the bed. He hates this, his omega nature, but he's not stupid, knows how to play it up. "I'm nobody, I'm nothing..." 

"Bullshit. We're the best of the best here – I've heard about you from halfway 'round the world. Now Coulson's _seen_ it. Takes a lot to impress that bastard. Contrary to what you might think - and rightly so for now – he's the best of the best too. He wouldn't have brought you here if I was wrong about you. He wouldn't have liked it, but if you really were a nobody he would have left you in the mud of that shit circus you were wasting away in." 

Clint trembles, but this time it's anger, and if it weren't for the two thick straps still holding his ankles down he'd have been out of the bed already, been gone. 

He knows what he is, ok, knows what he can do, knows it's true that he was wasted at Carson's, to say nothing of the abuse. 

Doesn't mean he likes hearing it out loud. 

And fuck that other guy, fuck _Coulson._

Who the hell was he anyway, to waltz in in his fancy suit and judge Clint, to decide what was better for him. 

"I sent him to find you." 

Clint looks up, his heart slamming against the walls of his chest and the pain fading away as his body prepares for fight or flight, a familiar distancing from his own boy. The Alpha is staring at him again and it's like he can see right through Clint, right to the core, like he can see what Clint is really made of, and he's too scared to want to know the answer. 

"I can use a man like you," Fury says. "A sharpshooter." 

"A sniper you mean. A murderer." 

"Sniper yes. Murderer? Fuck no. What, you think I couldn't pick up a hundred of those on any street corner, from any back alley? No. I want someone smart, who can think for themselves, who knows when to question orders and when to follow them, who can be a part of one the most comprehensive Strike Teams ever assembled." 

"Then I guess I should ask again. Why am _I_ here?" 

"Because you're smarter than you want people to think," the man barks with a laugh. "You're crafty, resourceful. And because I think deep down, underneath all that anger and bitter smart-assery, you want to be better. To be a good man. To find a place." 

"So what?" Clint hisses, a knife-sharp pain hitting him somewhere beneath his ribs. "You manipulate me into playing nice by promising me the family I never had?" 

"See?" the Alpha asks with a sharp grin. "Smarter than you look. And yeah, I'll exploit any advantage I've got. Betting on the fact that you're not too far gone, that maybe having a couple of people to have your back is enough to bring you around. If not, well, I've got something better." 

Rolling to his feet, he walks to the end of Clint's bed and unstraps his ankles, sticks his head out the curtain and calls to one of the people Clint can feel milling around on the other side. He doesn't quite catch it with the man's mouth out of view, but he pops back in with the young beta doctor in tow. She's pretty, gentle, smiles softly but hesitantly at him, and Clint warily lets down his guard just a bit, lets her tend to the tubes and machines beeping around him. The next thing he knows she's helping him up onto his feet, tile cold beneath his bare toes, and lending him a wheeled IV-pole to support him. 

"Just a _short_ walk," she insists, pointing her finger sharply at the Alpha director, and Clint is surprised to see him actually duck his head, acquiesce. 

"Yes ma'am. I'll have him back presently." 

Nodding, she touches Clint lightly on the elbow, doesn't mention it when he flinches, and then she's gone. 

"Follow me." 

He does, and there's only one reason he does. 

It's because the man turns his back on him, walks away leaving him to either follow or not. He doesn't plunk him into a wheelchair and push him, doesn't have a security detail heft him up by the armpits and drag him along. No, he just... goes, just turns and leaves Clint to hobble after him. 

It's not trust, but it's... something. 

It hurts, following him. 

Walking, hell, _breathing_ hurts. 

Every step puts pressure on his bad ankle, every movement tugs at the long, half-healed wounds across his back where Trickshot's whip had cut through skin and muscle. His lungs ache, his _thigh_ aches where the tranq had bitten in deep, and it feels like every damn eye in the place is on him, every Alpha, beta, and omega in the building sniffing after him but he keeps going, pushes forward. He's been fighting through pain since he was three, defying his orientation since he presented, and he's not going to let on to anyone that he's damn near on the verge of collapse now. 

The old adage about cats and curiosity runs through his mind as he follows the black-clad Alpha deeper into the building, and knows he's being played, but fuck, it's all taken root already, these promises like blunt force trauma to his already bruised emotional and psychological self. 

It's stupid, he knows, but a bigger part of him is well aware that he could easier kill himself than pass up the chance of a better life, no matter how remote that chance. 

This guy, he... he _knows_ Clint, that much is obvious as soon as they step through a double-set of locked doors onto a range. It's huge, high-tech, the most amazing thing he thinks he's ever seen, except then Fury's walking him up to a weapons cage and nodding to the man behind it. 

"Let's see Hawkeye's bow Hutch," he says grimly, and Clint's heart skips a beat. 

He's going to... he's going to give him back his bow? 

Only... only it's not his. 

This... this is a compound, powerful, shiny, big and new and high-tech just like the range, and _this,_ this is the most amazing thing he's ever seen. His fingers twitch, the casts around his wrists suddenly much more restrictive than they'd been as he practically dies inside with the need to get his hands on that, his breath catching in his throat. 

"That..." he chokes before clearing his throat, trying again. "That's not my bow." 

"It could be," Fury rumbles, leaning back against the counter on which the bow rests. "Think about it kid. A team. Friends. Somebody there to watch your six, to care about whether or not you come back. A bunk of your own, as much food as you can eat, as much medical as you'll ever need. And if that's not enough..." 

He doesn't have to push the bow forward, doesn't have to offer it again. Clint's hands are already on it, fingertips dancing down the limbs, caressing it like it's the only real thing in the world and maybe it is. He's been kidnapped, drugged, taken away from the only things he's ever called his own, as awful as they were, and now here he is being offered everything he's ever wanted and more on a silver platter. 

He's not stupid. 

He knows nothing good ever _really_ happens, especially to him. 

But hell, at this point he's ready to settle. 

Ready for _less bad,_ ready for the most basic access to food, shelter, medical care... 

He's not happy, he's not relieved, in fact he's scared to death, but he's been taking flying leaps into nothing since he was a kid. 

If there's anything Hawkeye knows how to do it's how to survive a crash landing.


End file.
